


The Science of Humans in Motion

by Watergirl1968



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, Jearmin - Freeform, Jearmin Reverse Bang, M/M, Road Trip, implied sexual situations, mention of death/funeral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3890560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergirl1968/pseuds/Watergirl1968
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Road Trip! 20-year-old student Armin Arlert wants to fulfill a promise he made to his late grandfather, Ed. He's got a beaten-up Buick Skylark, an old paper map and a few thousand miles to travel. Along for the ride is his charismatic roommate, Jean. There's only one hitch; Jean has feelings for Armin that run much deeper than friendship. And, the boys suddenly find themselves very short on cash and very far from home. I guess that's two hitches...Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Without Me

**Author's Note:**

> A very cool experience collaborating with breezerkawaii! She not only created the sweet art and the core theme of the story, but also helped me out with research. Apologies to folks living in any of the States or towns mentioned, in the event that I've gotten any details horribly wrong. The road trip that Jean and Armin took is now on my bucket list...After all, I know the way. :)

_He's gone._

_Oh. Oh, no._

_Gone._

It had been the old house's silence, soft and sunlit, that had panicked Jean. He'd sat bolt upright in bed, gasping, scrubbing a hand through his shag of sandy hair.

_Fuck. Armin is gone._

Jean scrambled out of bed. _Why was it so quiet?_ He shared the student residence with Armin, Mikasa and sometimes Eren. Surely, there should be someone banging about in the kitchen? Music? Nothing.

He opened the narrow window which looked down onto the street. An older part of town, the street was shaded with mature, leafy trees.

No, Armin hadn't left. There he was. He had the Buick's driver door open and was sitting, half-in and half-out of the vehicle, perusing a paper map. He wore jeans, ripped at the knees, an old red College t-shirt, and black canvas sneakers. 

As Jean watched Armin, his mouth quirked into a wry smile. _Look at you. Your school tee is chirping, 'Hey! I'm from Nebraska!'_ _Well, no. In fairness, lots of people like the Huskers. You don't need to be from Nebraska to have a Huskers tee._

Wide, clear blue eyes. A dusting of freckles. Cornsilk hair. A sunny, if infrequent smile. _Oh yes, you are so from Nebraska. A sweet, midwestern boy._

Jean's chest thickened.

He gazed down at Armin Arlert, all of twenty years old. 

__________

"I thought you left," Jean sounded a little petulant.

Armin didn't look up from his map. "No, you didn't," he replied equitably. "You knew I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye."

Jean crossed his arms and leaned against the car. Looked down over Armin's shoulder.

"What'cha got?" And then, he snorted. "A map? That's a paper map? Why've you got a _paper_ map?"

Armin looked up through a fringe of blond.

Jean continued, "You've got a GPS, a tablet, a phone…what d'you need this map for?"

"It was Ed's." Armin's lovely face clouded a little.

"Oh."

"And look, Ed drew stuff on it, see?" Armin pointed at the map. Sure enough, scratched across the surface of the worn map in ballpoint pen were notes, in Ed's neat, military hand. And, curiously, a few drawings.

"Huh," Jean bent over, to get a closer look.

"I think," Armin traced a tiny, zoomorphic scribble, "that this is a rooster….and this, it's a mesa. A _mesa,_ right? A flat-topped hill?"

_Don't go. Don't. You'll be all alone, and it's such a long drive."_

"Cool," Jean nodded. "A mystery map. You've got everything you need, dude."

__________

It was midmorning by the time Armin finished his careful preparations. He wasn't bringing all that much. He counted on the journey taking him ten days, give or take. Mikasa had embraced Armin, saying something to him that only he could hear.  

And then, Armin had turned to hug Jean. "Okay, _now_ it's goodbye."

"Dude, be careful. Just…" Jean pulled his friend close.

"Bye, Jean," Armin had squeezed tightly, "I will. I'm always careful."

Jean closed his eyes. Armin's fine hair smelled of summer. Across the street, the _tish-tish-tish-tish_ of a lawn sprinkler pulsed diamonds into the morning air. 

"Come back," he said thickly. "Don't do anything weird." 

Armin drew back, regarding him. "Of course I will," he laughed softly, "I've got a paper map, haven't I?"

Armin got into Ed's old Buick Skylark, flicked down the detachable sunglasses he wore clipped to his round spectacles, and plugged in his ipod. 

"I'm just stopping for gas," he called out, waving. "and then I'm gone!"

__________

It wasn't exactly a panic attack. Jean and Mikasa had stared after the car as it receded down the street and vanished around a corner. Mikasa's forehead bore a small, worried frown. 

"Armin is sensible," she reassured herself as much as Jean, "and smart."

Jean swallowed. "And alone," his voice began to rise in pitch, "and grieving…and…and…"

Jean had dashed back inside the house and vaulted up the stairs, two at a time, grabbing his soccer kit and dumping it's contents onto his unmade bed. Out bounced shampoo, soap, deodorant, toothpaste. With a frustrated cry, he scooped the toiletries back into the bag. He'd need them. Glancing around, he spied his laundry hamper and began jamming it's contents into the sports bag. He yanked his phone charger out of the wall, his tablet's as well. He fumbled for his jacket and his wallet.

He'd looked up to see Mika's dark, knowing eyes watching him flail madly about his room, shoving items into his pockets, cramming on his shoes, struggling into his windbreaker.

"I have sixty dollars," she'd said evenly. He winced, not wanting to take it from her. "And I'll water the plants. And call the clinic for you. Text me..."

He'd pulled his roommate close, and then exploded out of the front door, sprinting down Norfolk Drive and skidding around the corner to Casey's Gas.

The grey Buick was not at either of the two gas pumps. _No! Was he too late?_

Ah, there was Armin, using the air compressor to inflate the tires. Relief burst behind Jean's eyes, and he trotted up to the car, glazed in sweat, and collapsed into the passenger seat, hugging his sports bag to his chest.

Armin hung up the air hose, opened the driver's door, and got in.

Jean wheezed, like a leaky valve. "I'm….I'm coming. With you. I'm coming with you…to San Diego."

 

 


	2. Ed

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

Armin had been expecting it to look like a vase. Or a jar. Perhaps made of marble; serene, silent and frightening. With a plaque, or something.

The funeral director had placed it gently onto the surface of his polished cherry desk. It wasn't a vase at all. Instead, it was a lighthouse. It was crafted of stainless steel and it had bright brass details: a conical roof, a small Captain's walk around the top. Tiny brass seagulls. Even little brass shutters at the windows. Armin wondered if it actually had a light inside. It was whimsical and amusing, and it was Ed's final, ironic salute to those that had called him eccentric and difficult. 

Armin's lips quivered into a triumphant little smile around the stone in his throat. It was somehow - unexpectedly - okay that his Grandpa Ed was inside this lighthouse. 

Armin's eyes had flicked up to where his sister, a thin-lipped, impatient woman, sat with her husband. 

"That…that's an urn?" his sister Danae had asked the undertaker. Her distain, thin and tart, could not ruin the moment for Armin. He reached out, pulling the lighthouse gently off of the desk and into his arms. He looked at Danae, his pointed chin raised a touch defiantly.

"It's perfect," he'd said. 

Edwin Arlert had been sick for three years. It had been a crawling, painful decline for such a robust man. He'd stayed in his rabbit warren of an apartment as long as he'd been able to. He'd finally moved into the Veterans' Hospice when, despite help from grandchildren Danae and Armin, he could no longer manage on his own. He had died, at nine-fifteen in the morning, on the first of June. 

Ed had specified, in a handwritten will found taped to the underside of his desk, that he was to be cremated, and that his ashes were to be scattered in the Pacific Ocean, at Naval Base San Diego, on his birthday.

Armin had struggled to write his Grandpa's obituary:  _ARLERT, Edwin W. Peacefully, at Veterans Hospice, Lincoln, NE. on June 1, 2014. Deeply missed by granddaughter, Danae (Johnson), her husband Wayne, and grandson Armin. Great-grandchildren, Emma and Matthew…_

No, no. That made it sound like Emma and Matty were his kids, not Danae's. He rearranged it and added:

_Predeceased by his wife, Amelia, his son Alec, and daughter-in-law Rose (nee Hennig)._

Armin stared at the line for a long time. If he concentrated, he thought he remembered a woman in a garden, that might have been his mom, Rosie. He also remembered having a terrible ear ache, and falling asleep with his pale head on a man's shoulder. He'd thought the man had been his Grandpa, but Ed had said, no, that was Alec. Alec had toted Armin around on his shoulder, to comfort him, as he'd had colic and chronic ear aches as a baby.

_Predeceased by my parents and my Gran._

Armin had pulled off his reading glasses and sighed.

Ed was gone, and it wasn't the charming lighthouse urn that contained the essence of Ed; it was his grandson, Armin. Tears fell then; thick, bead-shaped tears, rolling down his lightly-freckled cheeks. "it's okay Grandpa," he hiccuped, "it's okay. I've got this. I won't mess it up. I promise."

He'd finished the obituary and e-mailed it to the newspaper. Ed's friends read newspapers. He'd gone into Ed's dresser and taken the keys to Ed's '91 Buick Skylark, which was now his. Into the trunk of Grandpa's car, he'd placed Ed's Elvis albums, his gardening journal, his copy of _Moby Dick_ and the huge, leather-bound coffee-table book he'd weaned Armin on. It was produced by National Geographic, and was simply titled, in gold embossed letters on it's spine: _The Outside World._ It held pictures of deserts, and salt flats, and polar icecaps and jungles. It was Ed and Armin's magical tome. These treasures, he couldn't risk Danae throwing out.

He closed the trunk carefully, and opened the driver's door. Blinked. There, sitting on the passenger seat, was Ed's wide-brimmed, leather gardening hat. 

Armin gasped. Trembling, he slid into the driver's seat, and picked up the hat. Held it by the brim, in both hands, and brought it to his face, breathing in Ed's scent; Irish Spring soap and sweat and apple tobacco. 

"Sorry," he'd burst into tears. "Oh Grandpa, sorry! Sorry!" And he'd wept inconsolably in the car, sobbing out words that were only meant for Ed to hear: apologies and dreams and hurts and promises. He'd cried until his eyes puffed shut and his nose was crimson and the car seat was littered with used, crumpled tissues. It was then, as he raised his head, that he noticed a small square of folded paper, shoved inside of the hat.

'Armin' was written on it.

Tilting his head, Armin pulled the note out of the hat and unfolded it. And began to chuckle through his tears.

It read: _It'll be okay, kiddo. Promise._

____________

Armin did his part to clean out Ed's apartment. He had met Danae and Wayne there the following Thursday. Danae's kids, Emma and Matty had been there. They were slouchy and sulky, like their mother. Matty had hunkered in a corner, playing his gameboy. Emma's eyes had widened in disgust when she'd spied Ed's stuffed crow, a gift from his friend Rowlie, a taxidermist.

"Ew," she'd said, "disgusting."

Armin had raised one eyebrow. "Be careful, Em," he'd said. "you know Grandpa had a few live birds in here, too, right?"

Danae and Wayne had a few friends come by to help. A large man with meaty hands called Jim Corcoran, his wife and a skinny Canadian named Guy. Jean and Eren had wanted to come as well, but Armin had sent them to his lectures instead, to take notes for him. It had been a bit of a ruse; the truth was that Danae and Wayne made him tense, and wary. He was always on edge around his dour sister, and he hadn't wanted to add his friends to the mix.

_Friends are God's way of apologizing for family_ , his Grandpa had said on more than one occasion.

Danae chatted with Jim Corcoran as they packed boxes.

"So, you grew up here?" Jim was asking Danae.

"Well, our parents passed away when Armin was three. I was fifteen. We came to live with Ed, then."

"That's quite an age gap, you and Armin."

"Yes, it is. Ed had no idea what to do with a toddler, so I did pretty much everything."

_That wasn't technically true_ , Armin thought. _Danae had been there until he was five, then she'd gone away to college. Grandpa had made his meals, bathed him, read to him. Grandpa had taken him to school. Grandpa had listened to him. Grandpa had taken him to Dr. Jaeger for stitches._

"Grandpa parented us," Armin had spoken up then, defending Ed. "He did his best."

This had elicited a derisive laugh from Danae. "Armin, he _spoiled_ you. It was different for me. Why, once, he took me over to great Aunt Carmel's for lunch…and came back for me two weeks later!"

_He probably enjoyed the break_ , Armin had thought.

"So, Armin," Guy the skinny Canadian had asked him some time later, as Armin was washing a few dishes that he'd decided to take back to the Student Residence, "you go to U. Nebraska?"

"Yup," Armin had nodded.

"What you studying?"

"Kinesiology," Armin had replied. And then, as not everyone knew what that was, he added: "the science of humans in motion."

"Huh," said Guy. "So what kind of job you get with that?"

"Well," Armin swirled warm suds around in the sink, "I'm studying Sports Medicine. I work with sports teams. As a trainer. And my room-mate, Jean…"

"Jean? A french guy? He Canadian?"

"N-no," Armin smiled to himself, "he's not Canadian. His family's from New Orleans originally. Creole, I think. Anyway, he works part-time in a rehab clinic. Now, our other roommate, Mikasa, is actually a choreographer. Modern dance."

"She your girlfriend?"

"No!" Armin nearly yelped. "Oh, no. No. She's an amazing girl, but no, I'm…."

"Hey," Jim Corcoran yelled from the living room, where he was watching Ed's TV, "Hey Armin, if you're into sports, you must know this Nebraska goalkeeper then? "

Armin's head shot up, and his hand stilled in the water. In the night-dark kitchen window, he caught sight of his own reflection. Startled, delicate, tired. His heart hammered.

"What's that?" he called, as casually as he could.

"That NCAA soccer goalkeeper for Nebraska. You know, the gay guy. He's all over the news."

Armin looked down into the sink. He was washing a blue glass goblet. There were four of them. Pretty, blue glass…

"Reiner Braun," Armin said his friend's name. "Yeah, we all know him. He's a phenomenal keeper. He's a powerhouse. He's signed with the Colorado Rapids for next year. MLS."

"So, he's gay?"

Armin bit his lip. _Why were these people even here, in Ed's house? Sitting in Ed's chairs and poking at Ed's things?_

"Well, yeah. He came out to the media. It took guts for him to do that, and he's opened the door for other gay NCAA athletes."

"Don't bother me," Jim announced. "I don't care if he's gay or not. Hell, people can do whatever they like. Just so long as I don't have to watch 'em. Do what they like in their own homes, I say."

Armin leaned against the sink. He pushed the pretty blue glass goblet down, down deep into the sink until it turned grey.

_This is my home. This is my home, and I'm gay, and you're in it, and I think you all should leave._

To think, he'd been so inspired by Reiner's choice, so buoyed, that he'd considered coming out to Danae and Wayne. After all, his friends knew. His teammates knew.

He dried the glasses, went outside and called Jean.

"Hey Armin," Jean's voice was gentle. "you done?"

"Can you…can you come get me? Please, Jean? Just come get me?"


	3. Flowers Upside-Down

They stared at it, on the car seat between them. It was small, rectangular, with two holes in it. Tentatively Jean picked it ip. A thin ribbon of shiny brown acetate ran, from one spool to the other, inside of the plastic housing.

"I can't believe it actually plays music," Jean snorted.

Armin nodded. He picked up the cassette tape, and slid it into the tape player on the Buick's dash. _Beach Boys, Endless Summer._ One of Ed's favourites.

Jean snickered, pulled his cap low over his eyes and slouched comfortably in the passenger seat, one leg up on the dash.

"Where we headed, Arm?"

Armin gave him a quick, sidelong glance. "You've got the map!"

"Oh, yeah." Jean unfolded Grandpa Ed's paper map. "Well, 1-80 West…you want to do about 300 or 350 miles in a day?"

"Uh-huh. By my calculations, it'll take me…take us, five days. That'll get us there in time."

"In time for?"

"Well," Armin said softly, "for Ed's birthday. He…he wanted to be scattered in the ocean on his birthday. June twenty-fifth."

Jean twisted in his seat, smiling at Armin. "Dude, this is your thing…I'm here to support you. Wherever the road takes us is fine by me. And if we need to be standing in the sea on June twenty-fifth…so be it." Jean closed his eyes, basking in the warm summer afternoon, content just to be close to Armin.

FOUR WEEKS EARLIER

Roses. Cream-coloured, tinged with the merest breath of pink. They were tied with raffia. The soft, pink edges had reminded Jean of…

"Here," he held the bunch out to Mikasa. "I'm a bastard," he sighed. 

Mikasa looked up from her books. Leaned back in her chair. She shook her head. "Jean…"

He held the bouquet tentatively, his handsome features tight and miserable.

She regarded him evenly, though not without compassion. "Not this time, either?"

"No. I can't."

Mikasa rose, approached her roommate and gently accepted the flowers that were meant for another. 

"I'm such a shit," Jean groaned. "You deserve to have someone bring you flowers for _real_ …not chicken-shit flowers."

"Ed is sick," Mikasa replied. "Ed is sick, and it's not long now, and surely Armin would appreciate a gesture like this. He appreciates even small kindnesses."

Jean let go of the bouquet. Mikasa took it carefully, removed the paper, and wrapped an elastic band around the stems. Carefully, she inverted the flowers and hooked them onto a ribbon that was fastened to her bedroom wall. Here, the roses joined a number of other drying bouquets; yellow, red and pink. All carefully tied upside-down to dry; a fragrant testament to the words Jean could never utter.

Jean sat on Mikasa's desk, watching her. "Men don't even give other men flowers," he remarked.

"I think they might," she ventured. "When you're close, surely small comforts and nice things would pass between you, right? Nice coffee, or tea. Wine.  A houseplant. A favourite food. Flowers, too."

"No," Jean swallowed. "He'll think I'm insincere."

"Why?"

Jean laughed. "Because I'm insincere about everything. Armin's sense of humour is…well, it's dry. It's a bit obscure. He might think it's a farce. Or…"

He fell silent, kicking the side of the desk with his heel. "Or worse. I mean, what if he thinks I'm trying to get close to him, just because I'm _curious_?"

"Are you curious?"

Jean looked up, his jaw set into a tight line. "I came to College to get my degree, and yeah, to have a good time. To meet people. To party, you know? And for the past two years, it's just…" he dropped his eyes, "nobody compares to Armin."  

A slow, soft grin. "He's so smart…He's adorable. And he's so _weird_ , Mika." he chuckled. "Good-weird. His take on things is just so unique."

"Tell him," she urged gently. 

Silence.

Mikasa sighed. "Then get chocolate next time. I have enough flowers."

__________

"Can you surf?"

Armin snorted, laughing, "Oh my God, no. You?"

"Yeah." Pause. "No," Jean admitted.

Outside of the car window, low, rolling hills were appearing on the horizon, mauve and pink, as the flat heartland began to rise. Armin and Jean asked each other questions, to pass the time.

"Okay," said Jean. "What did you think of me when you first met me?"

Armin snickered, nearly spitting out his coffee. "Do you even remember when we met?"

"At school. Anatomy class."

"No."

"Really?"

"Really. We met playing county soccer, the summer before school started. You were playing left back and I was bench trainer. I taped your ankles. While I was taping your ankles, you didn't even speak to me. You didn't even look at me. You were yapping to Eren and Reiner the entire time. I felt like a shoeshine boy."

Jean hooted with laughter. "Really?"

"Yup. But, whatever. I did my job. My opinion changed later."

"Like…when?"

"When I got to know you better and I saw how you treated Mika and other people you cared about. Your voice changes when you're talking to someone you care about. It drops in pitch, and you look into their eyes and you stop being such an _ass_. You become sort of protective. I thought you were okay, then. And I thought you were really funny."

Jean smirked, satisfied. 

"What about me?" Armin asked. "what did you first think of me?"

"See, I thought I met you in Anatomy 101. That first day…."

"Oh, God! _No!"_

They were both laughing then. 

"Yeah," Jean giggled, "professor picked you out of the front row, turned you around, asked you to remove your shirt, and…and he was like, _thorax…abdomen…sternum..."_

"Aaaah!" Armin blushed, flustered. Still. After three years.

"And then Connie Springer, the only guy like, _smaller_ than you calls out…"

 _"Chicken chest!"_ they both cried out.

"Fuuuck!" Armin guffawed. "I still…" he gasped through his laughter, "I still don't know what that even _means_ …like… _bony little chest?"_  

_You weren't bony. You were calm and serious and stood there as professor explained about compressions and airways. Delicate and bold and serious. And so, so fine._

"Chicken…. _chest!"_

They entered the town of Fort Morgan in the late afternoon. Jean had dozed off, and awoke as they crossed a bridge with arcing spans. Jean stretched, and poked Armin in the ribs. 

"So?"

"Let's stay here tonight," Armin said. "You want to find something? We’re in Fort Morgan."

Jean groaned, sitting up and thumbing his phone. Armin pulled onto a side street, shut off the car and got out to stretch his legs. "My ass is numb."

He walked around the car, prodding Jean's soccer bag. "You brought your soccer stuff?"

"I brought my laundry?"

"Hah," Armin laughed, "Why?"

"Well, I was rushing, but I figured…if it's in my laundry, that means it's something I actually wear, so if I bring my laundry, I'm probably bringing my favourite clothes. Hey! Here's one. Look. The Central Motel. $49 per night."

"Hmmm," Armin found the Central Motel’s cobbled-together webpage a bit dodgy-looking. "Maybe we should go with one of the name brand places, you know? Like a Super 8 or something?"

"Why?" Jean frowned. "Why pay $87 per night when we can pay $49?"

Jean smiled, pleased with himself for having found a bargain.

Armin capitulated.

 

 


	4. Train Tracks

The room was a patchwork of linoleum from several different decades, beige tile, and semigloss walls the colour of putty. It held a small round pedestal table, two chairs, and a double bed. The adjoining bathroom had a fan that sounded like a bomber aircraft, avocado green bathtub and a beige toilet. 

"It's like a soccer road trip," Jean said breezily. "we've stayed in worse. We've stayed in all sorts of places. Dorms, hostels, cheap motels. It's fine."

Armin nodded. "Well. If it saves money, it's fine by me." he frowned. "I still feel badly that you paid for it."

"It was my choice to come with you. I'm here to support you Arm, not sponge off you. Neither of us has a ton of cash but I'm working at the clinic and you're on Co-op as trainer. So yeah, we're students, but not _totally_ starving students, right?"

"I guess so."

"Besides…to be honest, Mikasa gave me some money. _Us_ , some money."

Armin frowned. "You took it?"

"I did. No time to think it through. We'll pay her back."

Armin looked up then. A low, yellowish sun made uneven squares on the wall behind the double bed. He smiled.

"We're always roomies when we travel for soccer."

Jean flopped into the bed. "Damn straight! Every player wants to be in the room with the trainer. You've got all the good drugs."

"And I give massages."

"I give better massages. I'm a Clinician."

"Pardon me," Armin snorted. "Shall we go grab a burger?"

They got double-stacked cheeseburgers and sat on the Rainbow Arch Bridge to eat them as the sun set. Below them, the South Platte River meandered into marshland. 

"This Bridge," said Armin around a mouthful of fries, "has eleven spans. It's one of the longest of it's kind in the US. It was built in 1922."

"Want my pickle?"

"Sure."

"Okay. Another question?"

"Sure, shoot." Armin nodded.

"Alright. Have you ever been pissed off at me?"

Armin looked at Jean. "We're always pissed off at each other. What do you mean?"

"I mean I know we get along really, really well. Even though we're _so_ different. But…have you ever been pissed at me?"

Armin crunched Jean's pickle thoughtfully. "Okay. But if we say, I don't want shit to get all tense and stuff. This is supposed to be a memorial trip. For Ed. You know, so let's keep it light, okay?"

Jean nodded.

"Fine. I was pissed once. I was _really_ pissed at you and Eren when we were playing county last summer and you guys wouldn't keep your gobs shut and that fight broke out."

Jean cackled.

"I'm serious," Armin said. "you and Eren both. When we play NCAA, you keep yourselves in check, so you don't get your asses suspended. But when we play county, you guys are gobby and mouthy and you never fucking shut up."

Jean smirked. "Yup. Aw, you know why. It's just to get under the other team's skin, man."

"…Which is fine. But you guys got in a shoving match, and pulled in Bert, and you would've pulled in Reiner, only I was screaming at him from the bench to stay in his crease."

"And he did."

"Yeah, he did. But you and Eren came this close to blowing Reiner's ride. He's can't sign with the Rapids if he's a discipline problem. And still, you guys couldn't stop _chirping_. So I was pissed. It was so selfish. I love you guys but you can't leave off beating your chests sometimes. So that's when I was mad at you."

Jean threw a french fry off the bridge, down to the ducks. "That's fair. I do mouth off. And Eren mouths off. I'm worse. But what you _didn't_ hear what their centre forward called Reiner. So actually, I was thinking about Reiner. Just wrong-headed, I suppose. I'm not letting some asshole make homophobic slurs toward my teammates. Not to Reiner. And not to you."

There. It hung between them, like the crescent of sun sinking into the Platte River. 

"Oh…I didn't know about that part."

"It's okay, man."

"Really. Sorry. I didn't know." Armin looked at Jean.

Armin finished off his root beer, rattling the ice in the paper goblet. "So what about you? Were you ever pissed off at me?"

Jean crumpled up his wrapper. "Well, maybe once. Just a bit."

"Really?"

"In Omaha."

"Oh," Armin winced. "Oh, yeah. _That."_

"Do you even remember that night?"

Armin coloured. "Bits."

"Spring break tourney in Omaha. We were at the Rib Shack and someone started buying shooters. And... _why were you even drinking shooters?_ You don't even really drink?"

"They tasted good." Armin smiled crookedly. They rose, and began to walk back toward the car.

"If Eren had seen that guy grab you on the dance floor, _that guy_ ," Jean jabbed his straw emphatically at Armin, "would have been pounded to a pulp. We're talking assault. You want to talk about blown rides? That would have been the end of Eren Jaeger in the midfield. But Eren didn't see, _I saw._ And I was mad, and that's because you got up, and you grabbed your jacket and you were going to get in the car with a fucking thirty-four year old cruising _creep_ who would have hurt you. _Jesus_ , Arm."

Armin looked down at his sneakers.

"Do you remember me coming up to you and putting my arm around you? And I was all like, 'Hey baby, I've been looking everywhere for you?" Jean asked.

"No."

"Do you remember me kissing you?"

_"Wh-a-a-at?"_

Jean chortled. "Haaah! The look on your face just now! No, I didn't kiss you. I took you back to the room, and put you in bed, and hung out with you and my heart wouldn't stop pounding because I was so _fucking scared_ that you nearly got in some creepy old man's car. I was furious, dude."

"I don't remember the room part at all."

"Good," said Jean.

_Good. Because you were sad. You got off of the bed and sat on my lap.You said that you were reluctant to ever get deeply involved with anyone, because then you'd have a weakness. A vulnerability. And you put your arms around my neck and I could feel your breath on my cheek. 'But Jean', you said, 'I am lonely.' And I felt your whispered words like a fire in my belly. You were lonely, and lovely, and sitting on my lap. And because I love you, and you were drunk, I made you get off. I stood you up, and told you that you were incredible, and that if you were mine, I would cherish you. And then you threw up on my shirt._

They stopped in the centre of town to get a few snacks, and some socks for Jean, as apparently the laundry hamper hadn't contained any that matched. They passed a confectioners, the heavy, sweet smell of fudge making both of them grin. A barber shop, a florist. Inside the florist's shop were glass cylinders, each containing an arrangement of live moss, green plants and stones, like a tiny biosphere.

"Look, Jean," said Armin, "for Mika. She'd like one of those. You…" he put a hand against the shop window, pointing, "you always give her flowers. She dries them. Did you know that she saves them all? If you gave here one of these, it wouldn't die so fast."

Armin looked at him, round blue eyes as serious as ever.

__________

Jean had lost count of the number of times he and Armin had shared a bed. They just about always passed out studying together, in either Armin's room, or Jean's. On occasion, Jean had returned from his late-night rollocking and collapsed face-down onto Armin's bed. When that happened, Armin would fit himself into whatever jigsaw of long limbs that Jean presented, and stay there. He reasoned that he might not hear his alarm the next morning. When the NCAA soccer team went on the road, they always roomed together. Armin had a non-stop stream of players ducking their head in to get taped, examined, stretched or prodded. Jean enjoyed the chit-chat and all of the visitors.

The bed at the Central Motel had striped sheets on it, a blanket, and a coverlet sporting an angry paisley print. Armin sat up cross-legged in bed, digging into his knapsack. Jean sprawled out alongside him, propping himself up on an elbow. Armin stopped his rummaging, fishing something out.

"Ed's watch," he showed it to Jean.

"Cool," Jean said softly.

He looked up at Armin. Armin smelled minty; he'd just brushed his teeth, combed his hair and washed his face. He stared fixedly at the wall opposite the bed, tears welling.

"Armin…"

"Nope," Armin flapped a hand. "Nope, it's okay. I'm okay." He smiled, swiping at his cheek with the sleeve of the old Huskers henley he wore to bed. "You don't need to do anything. You know I get like this, even before Ed died. So just," he nodded his head, "just sit there. Just think of Ed. That's all you need to do."

_If you don't like what I'm about to do, I'll just say sorry and take my hand away. Later I'll be able to say I was just being supportive. So here goes…_

Jean reached over, unhooking Armin's hand from where it fisted the comforter, and took it into his own. 

_I can't breathe._

Armin looked down at the long, strong fingers that had captured his own. He squeezed Jean's hand. And pulled it against his ribs. 

__________

Dark. Silence, except for the buzzing of the leaky bar fridge. And then, the room began to fly apart. Thunderous roaring, window panes rattling, enemy searchlights searing in through the windows. 

Jean was jarred awake, heart hammering, clawing like a long-limbed cat and pulling Armin off the bed and onto the floor. A horn, long and deep, like the bellow of a rhino.

"Fuck! What… _the fuck!!"_

"Train!" piped up Armin. "Jesus, it's just the train."

Jean scrabbled for the bedside lamp, flicking it on and stood in the centre of the motel room, chest heaving. He gawped at Armin. "What do you mean… _train?"_

"Train. We're beside the tracks, Jean. Didn't you realize?"

Jean strode to the window, glaring malevolently at the freight train until it's caboose disappeared into the night.

Armin snickered. 

 _"Why is there a train?"_ Jean wailed.

"You're the one," Armin pointed out, "that wanted a cheap place." His blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "got any earplugs in your laundry?"

It came again, a roar in the night. Jean started out of sleep. Darkness. The wall was striped with yellow orange light as the train cars passed and the room shook. _Thunka-thunka-thunka-thunka_ …the rhythm slowed, as the train was halted by the signal switches. The engine thrummed and idled, as it paused outside of the Central Motel.

Jean realized, as he lay on his side, that the heavy warmth nestled into him like a little spoon, was Armin. Jean's arm was flung across Armin's waist, his chin resting atop the pale head. 

"I know it's a train this time," he said. He could barely hear his own voice over the engine of the waiting train. "Armin?"

Armin didn't respond. He stirred a little, burrowing against Jean. 

Jean thought of the flower shop. "Did you like those habitats?" he said softly into Armin's hair. He swallowed. "I will buy you one. And I'll give it to you, and not to Mika, even though she is wonderful and puts up with living with two messy jerk-offs like us. I'll give it to you, Arm. All the flowers have been for you. _All of them._ I…I want to tell you, but I'm so scared I'll just wreck everything…I love you, Arm. I do. I do…"

The train's engines fired, the room shook. Jean shook as well, holding Armin in his arms, not daring to breathe.

 


	5. Rock And A Hard Place

"It's an eagle," Jean squinted.

"No, it's not!" Armin leaned over the map, peering at Ed's sketch beside the dot marking Fort Morgan, Colorado. "It's a chicken. Or like, a rooster."

"Why would Ed draw a rooster in Colorado?"

Armin looked up. He bore purple smudges under his eyes from lack of sleep. But otherwise, those blue eyes regarded Jean with the same easy trust they always had. Jean exhaled. And took another swallow of strong coffee.

"You sleep much?" he asked.

"Some," said Armin. "thanks for…for sitting with me and stuff. Last night."

Jean fanned the thanks away. "Where we going?"

"Well, we're headed to Grand Junction, dude."

"Dude," Jean chuckled.

"What?"

"You sound so funny when you say 'dude'."

"Get stuffed."

They took the I-76 out of Fort Morgan. They were just outside of town, heading west, when Jean gave a sudden squawk. "Hey! Look!"

Armin glanced to his right. A diner, by the side of the road. "Rooster's" proclaimed the sign, which was crowned with a rooster outlined in pink neon. And then it was gone.

"Shoot," said Jean, twisting around in his seat. "I bet they had good pie. Or coffee. I bet that's what Ed's rooster was."

"Oh well, dude."

"Dude."

__________

Jean was filling the Buick up with gas. Armin was inside the gas station's variety store, using the ATM machine. Jean watched him, through the window. Armin keyed something in, then snatched up the small receipt that the machine spit out, and crumpled it up. Stalked out of the variety store.

"What?" called Jean. 

Armin grabbed his phone out of the Buick's centre console, marched over to the grassy median at the edge of the station and paced back and forth, the phone jammed into his ear. Sat down. Sprang back up and made another call. This call was louder, and Jean caught a few snatches of words.

Uneasily, he walked into the kiosk and paid for the gas. Armin came back over, eyes downcast.

"What?"

"Can we go, please?" Armin asked. "just...away from here. I need to think."

"I'll drive for a bit," Jean hopped into the driver's seat, releasing the lever and sliding the seat back to accommodate his long legs.

They drove west. The road climbed steadily, through forest and hills, through sun-reddened rock, and valleys.

Armin hunched in the passenger seat, knuckles white on his phone, eyes hard and furtive. "Can you pull over, Jean? Please…"

Jean did so, and Armin threw open the passenger door, storming a few hundred feet off the road and into the hilly scrubland. A small, rigid figure. He stooped, picked up a rock, and with an angry yowl, hurled it as far as he could. Which wasn't all that far. Then another. Then another. An angry screech, of pure frustration.

Jean recalled his favourite quote from _Forrest Gump: 'Sometimes, there just aren't enough rocks'._

Armin came back to the car, spent and red-faced. He reached into the back seat, carefully extracting Ed's lighthouse urn. He got into the passenger seat, holding it.

Jean got back inside and shut the door, silencing the gritty wind.

"I have nineteen dollars," Armin began calmly. "I have nineteen dollars, because my car insurance company has had what they are calling a _mixup_. They've withdrawn a payment, from _my_ account, for someone else's policy. Someone who has auto insurance, home insurance, life insurance and that policy costs nine-hundred and ten dollars. So they took _nine hundred and ten dollars from me_! And…and they're _so sorry Mr. Arlert_ , and they will credit my account…in thirty days. _Thirty. Days."_

Armin huffed, grabbing his water bottle and unscrewing the lid. "So then, stupid me. _Stupid, stupid me_ , phones _Danae_. Why, WHY did I do that? I explain this all to Danae. Who snorts. And sits there. And says nothing. No..no, correction. Says: _Well Armin, what do you want me to do about it?"_

"Fuck," said Jean quietly.

"Not, 'how are you?' Not, 'how can we get Ed to his final resting place?' _Not even 'where are you??'"_

Armin's fingers traced the tiny brass shutters on the lighthouse urn. Jean's chest tightened in sympathy.

"Look," Jean offered, "I've got about 80 bucks in change in the beer keg bank in my room. I'll call Mikasa and she can send me an e-transfer and take the coins. I get paid in a week. Another hundred bucks or so. When do you get paid?"

"Two weeks," Armin said flatly. Then: "I'm not turning back. I'm not taking Ed and slinking back home. I'm not...taking him back to an apartment invaded by strangers, who tell me that gays can do whatever they like, just not in front of them!"

"Who said that to you?" Jean spat, his eyes narrowing.

"It doesn't matter."

Hard now, angrily: "Armin, _who said that to you?"_

"No one. A guy my sister knows. At Ed's, packing. Reiner was on the TV, and the topic came up."

"Reiner…fuck, I miss Reiner. It's not the same without him."

"He'd know what to do."

Armin poked absently at the lighthouse windows. The roof of the lighthouse could unscrew, and inside was a simple canister, which contained Ed's ashes.

Jean eyed Armin. "Did you actually open it?"

"No," Armin shook his head. He bit his lip, reached in through a tiny window and touched the canister. Picked up the lighthouse. It rattled. He looked at Jean.

Jean held up both of his hands in absolution. "Hey man, it's your Grandpa. It's your lighthouse."

Armin put his hand on the little brass roof, and turned. He peered inside. Reached in, and pulled out a small object. Began to giggle.

"What?"

"Look," he held his hand out. "It's a poker chip."

Jean grinned. "That's weird."

Armin turned it over carefully. "What's it for, though?" he mused. "Like, why put it in here?"

Jean began to chuckle, "Oh, man…you know the saying…'cashing in your chips'? Maybe Ed was trying to be ironic."

Armin frowned thoughtfully. "Or maybe…Jean, maybe that's what it's for! Look," Armin squinted the chip. "Sand Dollar Casino, Las Vegas. We're driving through Vegas…"

He turned the marker over. "This is a thousand-dollar chip!"

Jean grabbed Ed's paper map. "Look, Arm. Look at this little sketch…it's a sand dollar, right?"

"I don't know. It looks kind of like a hamburger. Or a boob."

"Armin," Jean leaned over, holding the chip between them, "this chip could be worth money. Only one way to find out!"

__________

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

"Let's go people watch a while," Ed Arlert shrugged into his overcoat and put on his wide-brimmed, leather hat.

Armin looked up from his textbook. He had a chemistry lab the following day.

"Nev'r mind," Ed flapped a hand. "you crack on."

"Well, maybe just an hour or so?" the teen looked up at his Grandpa, mouth quirked into a small smile.

'People watching' meant sitting in Flatley's Tavern across from the Co-op. The exchange when the Arlerts entered the bar  was always the same.

"C'mon, Ed," the owner would grumble, referencing Armin's age, which was well under twenty-one.

"Aw, s'no harm, Orv," Ed would place his arm around Armin's shoulders, pulling him close. "We'll just tuck into the corner for a spell."

Ed would have a Stout, and Armin a root beer. They'd order potato skins and onion rings. Then, they'd watch the comings and goings through Flatley's big plate-glass window. Often, they'd concoct stories about passers-by. Sometimes, they talked about Ed's navy days, and places he'd been. Once, Eric Schomberg, who was in Armin's geography class at school, had come in with his dad to drop off boxes of frozen onion rings and french fries and tater tots.

Eric Schomberg was a tall boy, with auburn hair and freckles. "Hi Armin!" he'd said pleasantly.

Armin had nodded and raised his hand, as though disengaging his mouth from the root beer straw was too much of an effort. When they'd left, Ed had remarked offhandedly, "handsome kid."

Armin's face had burned and he'd turned away from Ed, staring fixedly out the window. He'd said nothing.

"Polite, too." Ed had said easily, as if Armin was a willing participant in the conversation. "he didn't get much of a hello from you," Ed noted. "Can't say as I blame you, though. Your Grandpa's a bit of an embarrassment."

"No, no!" Armin said hurriedly. "you're great!"

There was a pause, in which Ed blew his nose and Armin shifted in his chair.

"Well kid, if I'm not too much of an eyesore...if you ever want to bring anybody special back to the apartment, that'd be just fine."


	6. Where's An Egg When You Need One?

They'd made it to Nevada, winding their way through some of the most breathtaking scenery Armin had ever seen. Sunset red rock, which gave way to mountains, and finally desert. On the 1-15, just outside of Vegas, the Buick had begun to cough. And then to steam.

"No," a small panicked mutter from Armin. " _No._ Nononono…"

"Exit here," Jean pointed. "Las Vegas Blvd. North."

Armin steered the Buick toward the off-ramp, pulled onto the Boulevard and stopped in the parking lot of a furniture warehouse. He made a small, miserable noise. 

Jean climbed out, stretched and popped the hood.

"What now?" Armin asked, his piquant face contorted with worry.

Jean turned, leaning back against the car. "Now," he said practically, "We wait. We wait for the rad to cool, and we look. We'll figure it out."

He gazed around the cement flatlands of North Vegas. Unconsciously, he reached out, scooped Armin closer, putting both arms around him. "Don't worry, Arm."

Jean's embrace was warm. He smelled of body wash and sweat and Dr. Pepper. Armin stilled. Then he wound an arm cautiously around Jean's trim waist.

"Short Stuff," Jean said softly into the pale hair, "Short Stuff, Chicken Chest, Little Bones…" and he rhymed off every nickname the soccer team had ever teased their trainer with, kissing the top of Armin's head softly.

__________

The radiator had a small leak. Armin plugged it with his thumb. Frowned. Then, suddenly: "Jean! Go into the restaurant there. Ask them for an egg!"

"What? Why?"

"It's a trick," Armin brightened. "A trick Ed showed me. I need an egg. Shit, _buy_ an egg if you have to!"

Jean's face split into a charming, crooked grin. "I can get an egg for free," he said jauntily, and set off.

And he did. Armin didn't ask how. He got Jean to plug the hole in the rad, poured water into it, and then carefully separated the egg, pouring the white only into the radiator.

"There!" he said. "Now, wait. The egg will boil, and plug the hole. We only need to make it a few more miles, then, hopefully we can cash in this poker chip and have more than enough to get the car fixed."

Jean chuckled. "Fuckin' Ed. That's awesome."

___________

Armin Arlert stood on the pavement, outside of the Sand Dollar Casino, clutching his marker in his fist. The casino's lights were darkened, it's windows boarded up.

A large notice was plastered to the front doors.  The Casino was in receivership.

Jean wheeled away from the door, teeth gritted in anger, glaring at the upper windows. "Dude, are you sure it's the right place?"

"Yeah. The address is on the chip. Look."

Armin stepped closer, pulling his eyeglasses out of his pocket.

"What're you doing?"

"Reading the fine print."

"Why?"

"Ssssh."

Armin read. It had been only two weeks ago that the property had gone into receivership. There had been a liquidation, and creditors could visit the Desert Gem to apply for renumeration.

"We might get something," Armin told Jean. "We have to go to the Desert Gem and ask."

__________

They trudged a few blocks down the street to the small, cream-coloured peeling facade of the Desert Gem. A neon-lit emerald twirled promisingly above the door, like a celestial treat.

Within, Armin located the cash windows. He presented the marker from the Sand Dollar to the teller. The teller called over a manager, who placed the chip onto a tray and regarded the boys. 

"Where did you get this?" he asked drily.

"I inherited it. From my grandfather, who is deceased." He presented Ed's proof of death certificate, and his own driver's license, to the manager.

The manager regarded both impassively, and turned back to his computer screen.

"Well," he noted, "this is a Sand Dollar marker. However," he held the chip up, "it's been nullified. See this stamp? Typically, it means that the marker has been cashed in, and then earmarked to prevent fraud. It's simply a souvenir at this point."

"Th-this isn't fraud," Armin breathed.

"Well," the manager pushed Armin's documents back toward him. "it's no good, I'm sorry. It's been paid out, or nullified for some other reason. I'm sorry."

Trembling, Armin opened his breast pocket. He would keep the chip. Ed meant for him to have it, so that's what he'd do. He stuck his hand inside, touching paper.

"Jean!" he chuckled bitterly. "Look what I found! Ten bucks!"

"Ten bucks you didn't even know you had, huh?" Jean cocked his head. "I bet I can double it."

"Go on then," Armin sighed, surrendering the bill, "I'm going outside. I'll be in the car, trying to figure out why Ed requested that a worthless poker chip be stuffed randomly inside of his urn."

He looked so defeated then; small and crestfallen. Jean's urge to comfort him was overwhelming. "Go chill," he said, "I'll win, just watch me!"

To Armin's immense relief, the pavement beneath the radiator was dry. The egg plug was holding. He slumped inside the car, flipping the poker chip through his fingers, thinking. _What to do? Sleep in the car for a week and hope that Jean got paid? It wouldn't be much; perhaps just enough to get them back to Nebraska. If the rad held. Perhaps the error the insurance company made would be rectified by then. Or not. Was there something he could pawn? He had Ed's watch. No._

He sighed, feeling immensely tired all of a sudden. Drowsy, empty. He dozed off.

Some time later, a knock on the window woke him. Jean, grinning hugely, plastering some bills to the window.

"Sweet!" Armin beamed.

"I got a few hot hands at the blackjack table. Ninety dollars! This, plus what we have, will get us to the coast. Let's go all the way," Jean's bright, hazel eyes fixed Armin, "let's take Ed to the sea. Let's just fucking do it!"

They were in North Vegas, near the raceway. They decided to make one more cheap motel stop to shower, wash some clothes, repack and sleep.

Jean thumbed through his phone. "Ha! Look at this. Gateway Motel. $26 for a single room." he looked up at Armin. "We don't care, right? We can make that work."

"We can. We need to get more eggs."

__________

Jean got eggs, twelve cans of beer, a small packet of laundry soap, a package of hotdogs, and buns.

The Gateway Motel was a relic from the seventies. White cinderblock, it squatted between a bowling alley and a pawn shop. It's sign was blue, sun-bleached to grey. Jean went in alone, to book a single room, and emerged with a key shortly thereafter.

"No one will rob us," he remarked. "Like, fuck. Between the state of the Buick, and the state of us…someone might even _leave_ us money!"

"I'm bringing Ed inside," said Armin. "I'm not taking any chances."

Jean took a length of rope from the Buick and strung it across the small, sour-smelling room. Armin filled the bathtub with hot water and laundry soap and washed socks, underwear, t-shirts. They plugged in the ipod dock and cranked _The Trews_ and did their laundry. 

They placed Ed's urn on top of the TV, filled the plastic ice bucket and chilled beer. They toasted Ed. 

They cooked hot dogs in the little microwave and ate them in buns, squeezing packets of ketchup and mustard that they'd collected onto them. 

"We'll always remember this trip," said Armin, having digested the disappointment of the useless poker chip and perked up. "Always."

Jean looked at him over the top of their makeshift laundry line. Armin had turned away, squeezing water from his socks. 

The two travellers squished together onto the single bed, drinking and talking late into the night. They played the question game.

"Where would you want to live after school's over?" Jean asked Armin.

"Anywhere but Lincoln."

"Okay, Jean: what do you really think about Reiner and Bertl?"

Jean stared at the rust-stained ceiling tiles. "Well, I totally get Reiner's position. He's going to be a public figure, at least in soccer, and he refuses to live a lie. Even if it costs him some support. He's an incredible keeper. Incredible. He'll play for Team USA. You watch. And…well, I guess I also get Bertie. He's got a job in sales, and he's chosen to be more private."

"Okay Arm, so, same question. What do _you_ think about Reiner?"

"I think he's fucking awesome, and I'm kicking myself that I didn't go to winter camp with the Rapids as a volunteer. I got short-listed."

"Why didn't you go?"

A pause. "Their players don't know me. All my school guys do. And I guess…I guess I wasn't ready to find out that pro teams don't want a gay trainer."

"I think you're wrong. You're an incredible trainer. Don't forget, you've trained me for years. We're not just roommates, and we're not just in the same program. When I'm playing, I'm in your hands. And you're the best."

"You're biased."

"Whose turn is it?"

"Mine," said Armin. "Okay. Close your eyes."

"That's not a question."

"Just do it."

He did. For a split second, he thought Armin was feeding him something. But no. The warm, soft sensation against his lips was Armin's mouth. Jean willed himself to remain still, calm, receptive. He made no sound, certainly none of protest. Armin's inquisitive lips caressed his mouth gently, but thoroughly, finishing the kiss with a small, approving sound. His face slid away, tucking into Jean's neck. His breathing deepened as he drifted into sleep.

Jean Kirschstein lay prone, his body hot and rigid as a rocket, eyes wide open in the dark. Tomorrow, if Armin remembered this moment at all, he'd excuse himself, and blame it on the beer. Jean trembled, wanted to shout, wanting to snare the small body with his arms and legs and coax Armin all the way open, lips, heart, body and soul.

The laundry dripped, soft and staccato, onto the worn carpeting.

The urn on top of the TV gleamed dully in the dark, it's brass decorations glimmering hopefully.

__________

Armin didn't puke. Despite the greyish cast of his skin, he managed to rouse himself, swallow some hot tea and Advil and began plucking the laundry off their makeshift clothesline.

Jean sat up in bed, watching Armin. 

"Lightweight," he chuckled. 

Armin glared. "I don't even drink," he muttered. "And I think I drank six beers. I feel like the dog's breakfast."

"Do a shot," Jean suggested helpfully, lacing his fingers behind his head and stretching out on the bed. His body thrummed pleasantly.

"Ugh."

They packed up their belongings, which were mostly dry, and assembled themselves. Outside the Nevada morning was grey bright, promising neither sunshine nor rain.

"I'll drive," Jean offered.

The car smelled a little too much like egg for Armin's liking. "Oh, Christ." he held the door open, his face scrunched, eyes tearing.

"We're so close," Jean spoke to him over the roof. "So close. Get some Gravol out of the jump bag."

Armin curled in the passenger seat, sipping gingerale, his only comfort the level throb of the Buick's engine, behaving itself, even though it smelled like burned omelette and ashtray.

Curiously, he peered out the window as Jean drove through Las Vegas. He'd always imagined visiting the fabled desert city, but not quite in this fashion.

When they were half an hour south of town, their companionable silence was broken by Armin's horrified squawk. "Oh MY GOD!!!"

"Armin, what?" Jean barked, alarmed.

"Oh my God, Jean!! Oh, NO!! _We left Ed on top of the fucking TV!!!"_

 


	7. North Vegas Salvage & Collectibles

Jean drove back north. Armin called the Gateway Motel, but there was no answer. 

"Hurry," he implored, "Jean, _go!"_

The day was growing hot. Armin's t-shirt stuck to his skin, and he rubbed his sweaty palms onto his jeans. Surely, the urn had been found, and turned in. And not stolen. Surely. 

Thus, Armin could scarcely believe his ears when the impassive, bulky woman in the reception office drawled, "Nope, nothin' like that, honey."

"Are you sure," Armin leaned over, his voice thin and strident. "It's an urn, about twelve inches tall, shaped like a lighthouse. A lighthouse!"

"Nope, no lighthouse."

"Oh," he was stricken.

"…I can check with the cleaner. She's gone, but she'll be back in tomorrow."

"Tomorr…no! Sorry, no, it's just urgent that we find it! Can you call her, possibly?"

Sighing, the woman picked up the phone and dialed. Her nails were long and airbrushed. She waited. "No answer, doll. Sorry. She takes the bus. Just out there…"

Armin glanced across the parking lot. "Thanks…thank you. Please, please try her again…."

"Armin!" Jean shouted, sticking his head in the door, "Armin, quick!"

Armin rushed outside, following Jean. "Get in!! Get in, _fuck!"_ Jean screeched out of the parking lot and drove north, eyes frantically scanning the sidewalk.

"I saw this girl…I saw this girl with Ed…"

"What?"

"There!! There she is!!"

She was petite, and blonde. She had a large, rattan bag slung across her body, and it bounced jauntily as she walked. In front of her, clutched against her torso carefully, was Ed. 

"Miss," Jean hollered. He tried to roll down the window, but the button was jammed. Armin leaned out of his side. "Miss! Please! Please, stop!!"

The petite girl continued on her way, wove through a few pedestrians, and got on a bus.

"Follow it!" Armin gasped.

His heart hammered in his chest. They'd found his Grandpa's urn. At least, it was no longer missing. It was on a bus, heading up North Las Vegas Boulevard, with a blonde girl.

__________

_North Vegas Salvage and Collectibles_ read the sign over the shop door. A ten-foot-high, chain-link fence surrounded the yard, which looked to be about two and a half acres of scrub, studded with automobile chassis, used cars, and car parts. The yard was also home to disassembled carnival rides, midway signage and casino trappings, strewn like faded-candy dinosaur bones, testament to a bygone Las Vegas.

Jean drove into the yard, turning off the ignition. He put a restraining hand on Armin's arm. "Let's not scare her," he said. "Seriously. Two guys, coming up to the door freaking out will scare her. Chill."

Armin took a few deep, slow breaths. He grabbed his knapsack, and got out of the car. Armin and Jean had begun to cross the brown scrub of the yard, when a deep, heavy bark stopped them in their tracks. They turned to see a large dog, cropped ears and bared teeth, bearing down on them. 

Armin ran toward the safety of the shop, Jean on his heels, only to find the door locked. 

"Hey! Hey, anyone here?" Jean hollered, as Armin tugged frantically on the knob. The boys froze in the doorway, the dog a few yards away, belly to the ground, growling.

The door opened, and Armin and Jean tumbled inside.

A clear, firm voice rose above the growling. "Otis! That's enough!"

The shop's owner regarded the two visitors quizzically, calling the dog over. The animal came forward obediently, and received a scratch behind the ears.

The proprietor was tall, reedy, with tanned, freckled skin and dark hair, skewered loosely into a ponytail. She wore rubber boots, a long coat, and had welding goggles perched on top of her head. An eyebrow piercing, threaded with a thin, silver ring that caught the late day sun. A small stud winked in her nose.

Armin and Jean gawped.

"I'm going to guess," she drawled, leaning on the shop's counter, "that you're a long, long ways from home."

"Please," Armin began, "a blonde girl came in here. Just now."

The perceptive, grey eyes hardened. "And?"

"And…and she's got something of mine. This is…well, there's been a terrible mixup. We…" he gestured to Jean, who was regarding the tall, quirky, freckled woman with something akin to amusement, "Jean and I, were staying at the Gateway Motel. And we left something very, very valuable there."

Jean rolled his eyes. Armin pressed on.

"And I saw the girl…the cleaner, from the hotel, with it. And I need it back."

"Valuable?"

Jean looked down at Armin. "Arm…"

The woman's eyes flicked to Jean. She addressed him. "This your boyfriend?"

"Yes," Jean nodded. "and as you can see, he's very upset."

Armin gaped at Jean, mouth open in shock.

"Distraught, even," Jean elaborated. "And _grieving_. His Grandpa has died, and we're on our way to honour his last wish, which was to be scattered in the ocean, in San Diego."

The woman crossed her arms and legs, lounging against the counter. "Otis," she told the dog, "sit."

"Only," Jean put an arm protectively around Armin's shoulders, "our car's about to die as well. We've boiled an egg in the rad…"

This caused the woman to laugh, revealing a row of even, white teeth. "I see,"

"We've pretty much run out of cash, and we just need to be on our way."

"With your very valuable _thing_ , is it? What's this very valuable thing you think my Krista has got?"

"My Grandpa," Armin said quietly.

__________

Ed's urn was sitting on a vintage, melamine-topped chrome table, in the little kitchen above _North Vegas Salvage and Collectibles_. The kitchen was painted teal, the cupboards sunshine yellow. Clear plastic beads caught the evening sun, spraying a rainbow onto the kitchen wall.

A small, angelic-looking young woman was boiling a kettle, for tea. She looked up as the taller woman entered, followed by Jean and Armin.

The tall woman removed her coat, revealing green work pants and a Vegas Raceway sweatshirt beneath. She bent her head, tipped the blonde's chin up, and offered her a slow, lingering kiss that began and ended in her eyes.

"Kris," she said softly, one hand sweeping a stray lock of hair out of the girl's face, "you've got some visitors."

Krista craned to look around her lover. "Oh!" she chirped, looking at Armin and Jean quizzically. "Hi there…do I know you?"

"This is Armin," the taller woman made introductions. Her voice was coffee smooth, and warm. "and this is his boyfriend, Jean. And they…" she pulled a chair out from the table, sitting on it backward and leaning her elbows on the chair's back, "have driven here all the way from Nebraska."

"Really?" Krista frowned. Then suddenly, her expression changed. "Were…were you staying at the motel?"

Armin nodded fervently. "Yes. Yes, and I'm so sorry but…I think you've got my urn."

"Mmmm," Krista poured boiling water into a teapot, shaped like a beehive. "that's quite a thing, forgetting an urn somewhere." Her eyes, paler blue than Armin's and very keen, looked them over. "I did wonder," she said slowly, "if perhaps someone had left it there on purpose. Ditched it. Abandoned it. Because that would be a hell of a thing. I brought it home for safekeeping. And to see if I could find the family."

Armin opened his knapsack, removing his driver's license, Ed's proof of death, and after a tiny hesitation, a picture of Ed and himself.

"Please," he said softly. "I'm Armin Arlert, and this was my Grandpa, Ed Arlert. And he died on the first of June. And it was incredibly careless of me to forget him. And I'm sorry to complain, but it's been a hell of a day, and this whole thing's scared me witless, and I just w-want him back!"

Krista looked at her girlfriend. "Well Ymir, that's what the plaque says. Edwin Arlert."  Krista looked back at Jean and Armin. "How about some ginger tea? You look a bit peaky."

Krista led the boys into the sitting room. They didn't know where to look first. Every shelf, wall and surface was adorned with collectibles. Salt and pepper shakers, street signs, glass soda bottles. Wooden toys, Vegas memorabilia. Two soft, comfy couches, covered with Mexican blankets and anchored by a solid, wooden trunk formed a calm oasis amidst the chaos.

"Wow," Armin remarked, craning around to see everything.

"I'm a collector," the tall woman, Ymir, told them. "A mechanic by trade. This is my salvage yard, and we do collectibles on the side."

"It's very cool."

"So," Krista leaned forward, "tell me more about this trip you're on…"

After a few moments, Ymir stood up. "I'm going to close up and feed Otis," she nodded. "I've decided these two are harmless, if you'd like to feed them."

"Yeah," Krista nodded, intrigued. "Stay. You can stay."

She got up and went back into the kitchen.

Jean looked over at Armin. Armin sat on the couch, teacup balanced on the grimy knee of his jeans, staring at him. _This is my boyfriend._

__________

Krista prepared a dish of chicken, rice and beans. She tore up some lettuce, and made a salad.

Ymir stomped back in, went to the sink and washed her hands.

"We eat in the living room," Ymir said. "most times."

Jean accepted a beer at dinnertime. Armin declined. 

Ymir was chatting about the salvage yard; how it had primarily been an auto salvage business, until the advent of the pickers-and-collectors trend.

Armin described kinesiology to Ymir and Krista. As he spoke, he felt Jean's hand on his back, gently rubbing away the stress of the day. The large, warm hand worked it's way up under his hair, fingers massaging his neck gently.

Ymir rose, thanked Krista for the preparing the meal, and began to clear away the plates. Krista helped her. They disappeared into the kitchen.

"Don't be mad," Jean whispered. "please?"

Armin closed his eyes.

__________

As the light faded and Krista lit some candles, Ymir stood, motioning to Jean. "C'mon," she said.

"Where?"

"Just c'mon."

She led him out onto a fire escape, and then climbed onto the roof of the building. Here, a maze of satellite dishes, receivers and equipment was silhouetted against the desert sky.

Ymir sat down on the roof, pulling a small, round packet out of her pocket. She extracted a thin, rolled cigarette, and offered one to Jean.

"Nepalese bee-bees," she said. "Herb tobacco. I don't smoke much. Just every now and again."

Jean took one curiously. He accepted the light Ymir offered. 

"What's all this stuff?" he gestured around.

"Ah. Little hobby of mine. I like to listen."

"To what?"

"Satellites. Police scanners. Ham radio…aliens, maybe."

Jean gazed up at the sky. A few brave stars were visible, through the smudge of Vegas sky. "Huh. You should see the stars at home, out of the city. Incredible."

"So," Ymir took a long drag on her smoke, "You love him. And you're afraid to say so. And he lets you love him."

Jean looked at Ymir, then back at the stars. "It's complicated," he sighed.

"No," his lanky companion replied. "It's really not."

__________

Ymir and Krista extinguished the candles in the living room, locked the doors securely and bid their guests good-night. Jean lay on one of the couches, underneath a red and purple Mexican blanket. A breeze came in through the window, and the beaded curtains chattered softly. He hadn't planned this. Any of it. He'd wanted to be by Armin's side, sharing the driving and supporting him. He hadn't intended this trip to..well, to _change_ anything. They'd left as the closest of friends; he'd pictured them returning as the closest of friends.

The collectibles in the living room seemed to move and leer in the dark. It was like a clown's cave. 

Jean squeezed his eyes shut. He'd kept his love for Armin off to one side; a sweet essence that could only be seen if looked at obliquely, like faerie lights, and which would vanish if gazed upon head-on. 

He'd never lied to any of his casual lovers. They'd been mostly students, like himself, out for an evening of fun. Girls. Guys, too. He'd had a knack for hooking up with reasonable, genuine people. Nothing serious. Not much drama. Slowly, he'd begun to realize that he was ending these dates early; making any excuse to return home to the Student Residence. To see Armin.

And yet, what exactly was his intention? To wait until school was over? To hide his feelings indefinitely? To allow another guy to take Armin from him? Because, Armin was gorgeous and goofy and ironic and it was only a matter of time before someone did just that. That thought turned his belly to ice.

Armin crept back into the living room after having visited the bathroom; a cotton-candy-pink shrine to Marilyn Monroe. Ymir had thrown extra blankets on the opposite couch, but Armin crawled delicately in beside Jean.

_I want you close._

Jean knew he'd be accosted momentarily; for his outrageous presumption. For his bold-faced lie, at the end of an incredibly harrowing day. Boyfriend.

_I said it to clarify that I would go to any lengths to keep you safe. The term 'friend' no longer carries enough weight for me. It rings false. In the urgency of the moment, I chose that word to mark you. Boyfriend. Lover. Mine. I can't bring myself to apologize. I'm not sorry._

Armin pressed closer, and Jean realized that he was shaking. He opened his eyes slowly. Armin was leaning over him, face indistinct in the darkness. A fine, tentative hand unfolded along the side of Jean's angular face. It was warm, and slightly damp. Fingers uncurled, slowly and very deliberately stroking along his jawline, finger tips tracing Jean's wicked, arched eyebrows, his closed eyelids, his lashes. Tracing down the length of his aquiline nose, brushing his lips. 

Jean's lips formed a soft kiss against the fingertips before he could stop them. _Damn it._

Armin's fingers trailed across his chin, down the line of his throat, over his t-shirt, grazing the pebble of his nipple. 

Jean captured Armin's wrist gently. He sat up, pulling Armin with him. 

"I heard you," Armin's voice was uneven, and husky. Large, sweet eyes, under the pale fringe of hair. "I heard what you said. That night. With the train."

It was like a smack in the face. Jean froze. Had he… _oh, yes, he had said it._ _That he loved Armin._

He shook his head, pained at the sloppy handling of this precious thing, yet unwilling to retract a word of it. "God, Armin, you don't need this right now…you don't need…"

And then Armin was in his lap, soothing, murmuring, embracing him, turning his face and kissing it, and Jean capitulated.

Their lips came together, open and moist and clumsy, Jean cursing softly, unendingly, against the sweet, damp mouth. He pulled Armin close, trying to still his shaking.

It was dizzying, holding Armin fiercely underneath the Mexican blankets. Kissing his lovely face softly. Nuzzling against his throat, inhaling the sweet, warm scent of his skin.

Armin arched against him, and Jean's arms tightened protectively. So warm, so safe. The silence of the apartment was broken by the soft, mournful whistle of the freight train, heading for the coast. 

_Grandpa? Grandpa, this is Jean. You remember him, the centre back on the soccer team?_

_Handsome kid._

_Well he and I…we're kind of a thing, now._

_So long as he treats you right._

_He does._

_It's gonna be okay, kiddo._

 


	8. Taps

Edwin W. Arlert was returned to the sea on his birthday, the twenty-fifth of June. A weary-looking, slight young man had walked into the sunlit reception room at _Ashes By The Sea_ , San Diego Naval Base, California, bearing a brushed steel lighthouse urn.

"These," he had said with a quiet gravity that belied his twenty years, "are the remains of retired Chief Warrant Officer Edwin W. Arlert. It was his wish to be scattered at sea on his birthday, which is June twenty-fifth. Today. I'm his grandson Armin, and I have driven a very long way to honour his wishes. I have seventeen dollars and fifty cents. Is there anything you can do for us?"

He'd placed a few crumpled bills, and some change, on the desk.

The officer had looked at him kindly, or so Armin had thought. She'd handed him a form to fill out. As Armin had begun to write, he'd felt a warm hand on his shoulder. Jean was there, sitting close and asking, "will they help us?"

"I don't know yet," Armin mouthed. 

Armin handed the form back to the officer, who rose, bidding him to wait.

Armin looked at Jean. "I don't want to just…just randomly stop on the highway and chuck him in the water. That doesn't feel right."

"Mr. Arlert?"

He looked up.

"Mr. Arlert, I'm sorry. Even if you were able to make payment, the earliest booking we have is next Wednesday. There is a permit to file. Paperwork to complete. And, of course, the services of our clergy to arrange. And it is our policy that all accounts need to be paid in full, prior."

Armin said nothing. Took a few long breaths. He removed Ed's gold watch from his pocket and laid it on the desk. "Can you take this? As a sort of security deposit? Is there any way you could do the paperwork afterward?"

The officer stood then. And saluted. Armin looked behind him. A tall, square-shouldered man stood in the doorway in crisp naval whites.

"Commander Smith," the officer nodded, eyes forward.

"Officer Ral," the Commander's voice was rich, and warm.

Armin stared at the carpet, regretting his visit to _Ashes By The Sea_ more and more with each passing minute.

"Good afternoon," the Commander's steel blue eyes fixed the boys like a bayonet.

Armin rose uncertainly, pulling Ed's urn into his arms. 

The Commander, seeing the urn, removed his hat, tucking it beneath his arm. His hair was neatly-trimmed, and blond. His eyebrows swept, thick and expressive, over a smooth brow.

 _He removed his hat for my Grandpa_ , Armin thought. His eyes pricked with hot tears. _Oh, damn…_

"Arlert?" the Commander frowned. "are you a relation of Edwin Arlert's by chance?"

Exhausted, Armin could only nod. 

"Edwin Arlert was my training officer. And a fine man," the Commander said gently. 

"He was my Grandpa," the boy said simply, two tears rolling down his cheeks. "I'm sorry. Today is his birthday, and I'm _too late…"_

The Commander's expression softened. He turned, beckoning to Armin and Jean.  "Come with me."

__________

The ashes fell, in a soft sweep, onto the water, glimmered for a fraction of an instant, before disappearing beneath the dancing waves. The Commander handed the empty lighthouse urn to Jean. Armin leaned over the side of the small runabout, laying a wreath of flowers onto the water.

_Gerbera daisies, Grandpa. Yellow ones. Nothing too fussy._

The Commander barked an order, and the four officers, all of whom had been trained by Edwin Arlert, snapped off a crisp salute. One of them raised a trumpet to his lips, playing a slow Taps; the notes wheeling up and into the clear California sky.

Years later, Armin remembered the afternoon as a shimmering fresco; bright white uniforms, stainless blue sky, moody blue sea. Sunburned cheeks, windburned lips. Gulls wheeling. Jean by his side, arms around him.

"Thank you," he'd shaken hands with Commander Smith, and the other officers, "I won't ever forget this…"

__________

The ocean was colder than Jean had expected. He's sprinted down the beach, across the smooth strand, plowing into the waves, gasping as he was knocked off his feet. "Whohooo!"

Armin stood still. He let the waves of the Pacific break and lap, glassy and silent at his toes. _I want to remember this._

The e-mail had come that morning. A form letter from Armin's insurance company, saying that they were deeply sorry for the inconvenience their error had caused and that his account had been credited in the amount of nine-hundred and ten dollars. 

Money wasn't everything. However, when one is stranded, it's most certainly useful.

Armin had returned to _Ashes By The Sea_ and presented them with the full amount for his Grandpa's service. He'd taken the Buick for an oil change and a top up. And then, he'd gone swimming with his boyfriend.

The water coursed over his feet, tugging at his ankles. Jean whooped and splashed, like a creature unleashed, laughing and calling to him.

Armin scampered into the waves, getting knocked down for his trouble. The ocean was bracing, a living thing swirling and sucking at him, washing him clean, giving him clarity.

Later, they walked in the shallows; or rather, Jean walked and Armin rode piggyback, peering forward over Jean's shoulder, watching the sea-shapes in the shallows; smooth stones, shells, sand patterns, the flash of tiny fish. He clasped Jean's broad shoulders tightly, closing his eyes and feeling the hot sun bead onto his eyelids. 

"It feels as though we've been…well, together for a long time," he murmured.

"You're incredibly heavy," Jean teased, "and this has been the longest ten days of my fucking life." 

"Question game?"

"Okay."

"How long have you liked me for?" Armin nipped Jean's ear playfully.

"Who says I like you?"

He stopped, lowering Armin to the sand and turning around. He reached down, taking Armin's face in his hands, searching the sweet blue eyes. 

"I look at you, and I can't breathe," he said slowly. "You're under my skin. You're in my bones. But more than that….Armin, you are the best friend I've ever had."

Soft kisses….to Armin's closed eyelids, his upturned nose, his sunburned forehead. His warm cheeks, and finally his mouth. Tender, teasing kisses, unfolding that friendship, peeling it back, layer by layer, until it caught fire.

 


	9. Lighthouse

The return trip had taken a little longer. They'd driven back through Vegas, stopping to pay Ymir and Krista for the radiator. Ymir wouldn't take the money; instead, she fed them barbecue, and had them stay for the night. In the dark of the collectible-filled living room, beneath the Mexican blankets, Armin had kissed Jean hungrily, squirming silently on Ymir's couch, shivering when Jean's strong fingers touched him, breathless that Jean had wanted to give him pleasure.

On a fine afternoon, twelve days after they'd set off, they approached Fort Morgan, Colorado, this time from the south. Armin lounged in the passenger seat, Ed's leather hat pulled low, sandalled feet up on the dash.

Jean drove, singing off-key, carefree and blissful.

"Dude!" Armin looked up, "Pull over!"

"What?"

"Look, there's that Rooster place, remember? Ed's rooster drawing on the map?"

"It was an eagle."

"Just pull over!"

Jean crossed the median, pulling into the dusty parking lot of the diner.

"I'm hungry anyway," Armin chirped. "Rooster's Diner. Let's go in."

It was cheerful, woodsy, and spotlessly clean. Red checked tablecloths, cane chairs and a long, gleaming pie-case, the contents of which made Armin's mouth water. There was a soda counter, with padded chrome stools, behind which a short order cook and two servers worked busily.

Armin grinned. No wonder Ed had liked this place. He ordered a chicken melt, and some onion rings, in Ed's honour. Jean asked for a bacon double cheeseburger.

Armin swivelled himself around, taking in the decor. On the wall were photos, canoe paddles, artwork. Wind chimes. Spirit wheels. A few patrons were scattered around the diner, reading the newspaper, chatting, and tucking into their lunches.

By the front window, an older man was seated. He was Native American, and wore his hair in a long, grey queue. His face was lined, his jaw square. He wore a denim shirt, and a patterned vest overtop. In front of him was a pot of tea.

"Arm, check out that guy," Jean whispered. "He's cool."

Armin snuck a look. Smiled.

Their food arrived. Jean was laughing, wondering how he'd ever explain Ymir to Mikasa. Or to _anyone_ for that matter. Or explain Otis, the junk yard dog."

Armin snickered, crunching an onion ring. "Yeah, like…we met a junk yard dog! A real _junk yard dog!"_

The man in the corner watched the boys, with keen interest. Nebraska, by the accent. Students. The taller one had the easy, cocky posture of an athlete. The smaller one, he recognized. The boy talked with his hands. He had a familiar way of pushing his hair back behind his ears, which were round and poked insistently through his blond mane. Periodically, he shoved his eyeglasses onto the bridge of his nose with his thumb, as his nose seemed too small to hold them in place. And, judging by the look of the dessert that Arlene had just served him, he had a fondness for tart rhubarb pie and hot coffee, like his grandfather.

The older man rose, tucked in his chair, and stepped behind the counter. He stopped in front of the two boys, who looked up at him guiltily.

"Sorry," said the smaller one, assuming that they'd caused a disruption. "Are we too noisy?"

"You're Armin," said the older man.

"I…I am," the boy shot a quizzical look at his travelling companion.

A large, square hand was proffered. Armin wiped his own hand on a paper serviette and shook it. 

The man shook his head slowly, amused. "You don't remember me."

"N-no, sir, I…"

"Your Aunt Carmel died when you were seven," the words were spoken in a calm, even cadence. "she was your grandfather's sister. Your great-aunt."

"Yes, Aunt Carmel…"

"I'm Gary Standing Rooster. Carmel was my wife. I'm your great uncle, Armin."

"Oh," the boy might have fallen backwards, had his companion's long arm not shot out to support him. "Y-you're my Uncle Gary. Grandpa told me stories about you!"

A low chuckle. "Whatever he said, the truth is much worse."

The kind, steady eyes regarded him. Armin looked up. And in that moment, felt the lick of the Pacific on his toes; felt the heat rising from the asphalt as the Buick sped along the Interstate. Heard Krista's odd, musical laugh. Saw the affection for his Grandpa in the eyes of a naval Commander. Heard Jean's words, raw and quiet and pure, soft against his neck in a cramped motel room bed. _I love you._

"Wow…" he said again, turning slightly. And then he said the words, for the first time: "Uncle, well, this….this is my boyfriend, Jean."

Gary Standing Rooster smiled, clasping Jean's hand warmly. "Hey, Jean," he said. "Welcome."

__________

They sat at the table by the window, with Armin's uncle. Armin had gone to the car and retrieved the lighthouse urn, which he'd kept. His Uncle Gary had nodded sagely again, when Armin showed it to him.

"I wanted to go," Gary said carefully. "up to Lincoln, you know. For the funeral. But I dreamed about Ed. I spoke to him. Told him what I needed to say."

"I kind of did that, too." 

"You know, I made this." Gary's hands, like chestnut leather, touched the lighthouse urn carefully. "We served together, in the Navy. After that, I did some metal work. Worked at the car plant for many years, while I was married. When Carmel went, I came out this way."

The old man looked at Armin steadily. "You find anything inside here?"

Armin blinked. Looked at Jean. "I did."

"You keep it?"

Armin nodded.

"Show me."

Armin reached into his breast pocket and produced the poker chip from the Sand Dollar Casino.

Gary nodded. "Wait here."

He rose, and returned a few moments later, with a small, yellowed envelope. He sat down, sliding it across the table to Armin. 

In Ed's neat lettering, Armin's name was printed on the envelope. It was sealed. 

Armin turned it over in his hand, carefully opening it. He gasped. "Whoa. It's…"

"One thousand dollars," Gary Standing Rooster told him. "Ed cashed in that chip. Left this here for you. For safekeeping."

His Uncle held out a hand, grinning. "I'll take that chip now, though."

Armin looked at him curiously. "Ed got this chip on a trip he and me took. A good trip that I won't forget in a hurry."

Gary smiled, eyes misting over, and tucked the poker chip into his vest pocket.

"You find the light?" Gary took the lighthouse, pushing carefully on it's roof, and twisting. The roof opened.

"Cool," Jean leaned over, looking inside. He watched as Armin's uncle took a small battery, fitting it inside the compartment. He pushed a button, and closed the lid. A small, cheery light shone out of the top window. 

Armin laughed delightedly.

Gary Standing Rooster smiled, satisfied. "Rest with your fathers, Ed. Until I cross the river to find you, old friend."

Armin reached for Jean's hand, clasping it tightly.

"Lighthouse," Gary told the young lovers, "it guides you home."

 


End file.
